The Shadow - Death's Bright Finger Part 7

"Oh!" Sam Burns hesitated. Then he shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it's true. I hate to lose the kid, but I'm not the guy to stand in her way if she wants to take things easy in South America. She asked me to cancel her contract. I agreed. My motto is to give nice people a break."

"How about Bascom?" Trevor said. "He's putting a lot of dough in this joint. Dawn is a big box-office attraction. She pulls in most of the trade. If she quits, Bascom stands a chance to lose his investment.

Wasn't he sore when you told him?"

He watched Sam's eyes flicker. Trevor's own gaze stayed careless. He didn't seem to notice the hostilitythat stabbed briefly at him from the eyes of the night-club manager.

"I dunno how Bascom feels," Sam said. "I haven't talked to him."

Another lie! Trevor had noticed Sam and Bascom with their heads together in a dim corner of the club not more than a half-hour earlier.

"Better hop out front and take over your band for that novelty number," Sam Burns muttered.

"Sure! And thanks for the news about the new financial set-up," Trevor said.

He vanished along the corridor toward the stage. Sam Burns stayed where he was. The fake grin wiped from his lips. His tall, well-muscled body swung around. With the soundless speed of a panther on the prowl, Sam darted along the dim corridor toward the empty dressing room that Carl Trevor had sneaked out of a few moments earlier.

He hesitated just long enough to make sure that no one had seen him halt outside the closed door of Dawn Reed's dressing room. Then he vanished inside. The closing door made no sound behind him.

DAWN REED sipped slowly at a gla.s.s of champagne. It was very good champagne. In fact, it was the most expensive brand obtainable from the well-stocked cellar of the Club Penguin.

"Nice," she said to Peter Bascom.

She was sitting at Bascom's table. She had gone there as soon as she had finished her last song. She was there because Bascom's heavy-lidded eyes had commanded it.

"Champagne is the only decent drink for a celebration," Bascom said softly. "That's why I ordered it."

"Celebration?"

Dawn's dark eyes widened, as if she didn't understand what he meant. But she knew! Her heart was thudding so hard beneath the thin material of her stage costume that she was afraid Bascom might notice.

She touched his hand with hers to distract his thoughts.

Bascom squeezed her slim fingers with a grip that almost made her wince. He was a big, powerful man, accustomed to having his own way.

"When a girl is smart enough to quit the grind of show business and take things easy for a while in South America," he said, "it calls for celebration, doesn't it?"

"Oh! Yes, it does."

He kept squeezing her hand, as if it pleased him to know that he was hurting her. People kept watching his table. That pleased him, too. Dawn was a lovely woman. Peter Bascom, for that matter, drew plenty of attention, too.

No one knew very much about Bascom or his business. He had a luxurious office in a midtown skysc.r.a.per. Most of the time the office was deserted, except for a thin man with long legs who sat at a desk reading detective magazines.

The thin man was polite to visitors. He wrote down the names of callers for the later attention of Peter Bascom. Outside of that, the thin man didn't seem to know anything.

Bascom always made a jovial reply whenever he was asked directly about his affairs. "I'm just a capitalist. A promoter, you might say. A bit of finance. A bit of trading on the stock market.

Mostly, I mind my own business."

Questioners were quick to take the hint and change the subject. Bascom had a way of seeing to that. He seemed to see lots of things that he kept locked away behind his shrewd, ruthless eyes.

But there was something tonight that Peter Bascom didn't realize. Dawn Reed was clever. No hint of the fright inside her was evident. She was afraid to let Bascom know that she was afraid!

Dawn wanted to quail when he leaned closer to her, his lips brus.h.i.+ng her ear. But she conquered her inner terror of the man. She played up to him.

"It won't be long now," Bascom said meaningfully.

"Really?"

"I've got a nice deal pending. I think I'll have everything cleaned up in another couple of weeks. After that--Rio!"

Dawn made some joking comment. She put down her champagne gla.s.s because her hand was trembling.

"Rio, darling!" Bascom continued slowly. "Everything will be done very quietly. You'll have your little villa, I'll have mine. There'll be a private beach and lots of blue water. There'll be money enough for anything a girl could want. I said anything!"

"You're sweet," Dawn murmured.

"You understand me? The sky will be the limit for you. A yacht--a private airplane! Name it--it's yours!

We'll let the world go by in those twin villas at Rio!"

"You can't neglect your... your business indefinitely, can you?" Dawn said without looking at him.

"I didn't say I would." Bascom's lips were suddenly tight behind his smile. "New York isn't very far from Brazil by airplane. I'll fly back and forth when there is any need. You won't mind if I occasionally attend to--business?"

"Silly," she said, smiling. Her heart was like ice.

Suddenly she felt the muscular hand on hers give a quick jerk. Dawn lifted her lowered lashes. She could observe Peter Bascom directly, because he was no longer looking at her. His gaze was riveted on a table across the crowded floor of the night club.

There was a peculiar expression in his narrowed eyes.

Two men were sitting at the table that Bascom watched. They had come in very quietly during one of the blackout numbers of the chorus on the stage. They were drinking highb.a.l.l.s, and seemingly paying no attention to their surroundings. The seminude girls on the stage seemed to interest them.

Actually, they were keeping tabs on a man. They were watching Carl Trevor deftly conducting his band.

One of the two men was obviously a bodyguard. He had a bull neck and a compact, muscular body. He looked a little rumpled in evening clothes.

His companion was George Stoker, the ex-lawyer for Flash Snark. BASCOM snorted. He registered growing anger as he saw Dawn looking at him. He lifted an imperious finger and beckoned the head waiter. He spoke curtly under his breath.

The head waiter got worried. He tried to placate the wealthy new backer of the Club Penguin. Unable to do that, he pa.s.sed the buck.

"Just a minute, sir," he whispered, and withdrew.

Sam Burns showed up a moment later. The night-club manager gave Bascom a sharp look. He tried to argue a little. Bascom cut him short.

"I don't give a d.a.m.n whether there's a scene or not! I want those two lice tossed out of here! Now!"

"But--"

"I own this night club. I intend to have it run the way I prefer! It doesn't please me to see crooked lawyers hanging around here with thug bodyguards. Go over there and tell Stoker to get out! Tell him the Club Penguin doesn't cater to thugs and crooks."

The manager shrugged. "O. K."

"And don't forget this. Tell Stoker that if he ever tries to come back he'll be refused admittance like any other crook! You've got men here, I presume, who know how to bounce people?"

Sam Burns' eyes glinted.

"Yeah."

"Have them stand by. If there's any fuss, give both those rats the same dose you'd give a couple of noisy drunks!"

Sam Burns looked unhappy when he departed. He didn't go immediately to the table of George Stoker.

He waited until various waiters moved inconspicuously into position nearby. He was sweating a little when he finally bent over Stoker's table.

The lawyer's face flushed. He spat a quick whisper to his bodyguard. The bodyguard had shoved his chair back. His hand was close to his hip. But he relaxed at a low-toned warning from Stoker. He looked sullen and disappointed.

Stoker turned, gave Peter Bascom a long, cold scrutiny. Then he motioned to his bodyguard and rose quietly from his table.

He left the night club without a word, followed by his scowling companion. It was all done so deftly, that most of the people nearby were unaware that anything out of the ordinary was going on.

But two men besides Bascom understood what was happening.

One of them was Carl Trevor, waving his baton up on the stage with a polite smile. Carl had a showman's trick of facing the audience more often than he faced his band. It had enabled him to keep a grim eye on both Bascom and Stoker. He seemed sneeringly amused.

The second man who was aware of trouble was closer to the scene than Carl Trevor. Stoker almost brushed the shoulder of Harry Vincent as he walked toward the club exit.

Vincent rose a moment later. His orders had been explicit. Stoker was to be kept in sight until the ordersof The Shadow were changed.

Vincent turned in his hat check. He drifted toward the sidewalk in the wake of the criminal lawyer and his bodyguard. He didn't know where they would go next. But he wasn't worried. Harry Vincent had things well under control.

DAWN REED stayed a while longer at Bascom's table.

Bascom made no comment about his sudden anger. Dawn could tell that his rage had been phony. The whole thing had been done with cold and deliberate malice. The moment Stoker vanished, Bascom resumed his smooth talk.

As soon as she dared, Dawn made an excuse to leave.

"Will I see you later?" Bascom asked, his lidded eyes full on her face.

"Maybe. I don't know. I'm a little tired."

"We ought to go somewhere, later, and have one more drink."

"I'm... I'm really tired."

"You've sung your last number. Why don't you let me--"

She murmured something inaudible as she moved away. She was afraid to give a definite "no" to Bascom. She hoped he wouldn't be waiting for her at the stage door. There was an important reason why Dawn Reed had to get home fast tonight--and alone!

The moment her dressing-room door was locked, she ripped off her stage costume with feverish haste.

Just as swiftly, she donned her street clothing. She was halfway toward the door when she suddenly remembered something that panic had driven from her mind.

She darted back to her dressing table.

The secret drawer flew open at her touch. Apparently nothing inside that drawer had been disturbed.

Dawn didn't take the newspaper clippings. But she slipped the pistol into the pocket of her short, furred jacket. She didn't examine the gun. She remained unaware that the weapon had been tampered with by Carl Trevor.

A moment later, Dawn was outside the stage door of the Club Penguin urgently calling for a taxi.

Carl Trevor didn't waste time, either. Sam Burns tried to detain him with a lot of meaningless talk after the show had finished. But Trevor cut the night-club manager short.

"Sorry! I gotta scram."

As he hurried away, he added a final remark over his shoulder.

"Tell Eddie to bone up on tomorrow night's band schedule. He may have to swing the stick for me."

"Why?" Sam Burns shot the word like a bullet.

"I don't feel so good. Stomach out of kilter. I may have to skip the show. I'll give you a ring in the morning, after I see my doctor." Trevor turned. He made a wry face to indicate great physical distress, then vanished out the stage door on the run.

Sam Burns' eyes were like lumps of ice.

"Like that, eh?" he whispered under his breath. "O.K., pal!"

CHAPTER VIII. A TANGLED TRAIL.

WHEN Harry Vincent left the Club Penguin he was careful not to move too fast. Under no circ.u.mstances was he to allow George Stoker to become aware that he was under surveillance.

The criminal lawyer and his bodyguard were still in sight. They had walked down the sidewalk to where an expensive-looking sedan was parked. The two men got in and Stoker slid behind the wheel. The lawyer seemed anxious to get away in a hurry. He started so fast, the gears made a grinding rasp.

He drove swiftly toward the corner.

Harry Vincent was under way, too. The moment Vincent saw Stoker and the bodyguard jump into the sedan, he glanced along the street. There were a lot of taxicabs in line, but Harry noticed only the one he needed.

It was easy to pick it out in spite of the darkness beyond the flashy entrance of the night club. The driver of one of those taxis had flicked a small pocket torch three times. It looked like the rapid wink of a firefly. A moment later, Vincent was in the cab.

The taxi driver was Moe Shrevnitz. Shrevvy, as he was known to the taxi fraternity, had the reputation of being one of the shrewdest hackmen in the business. But there was one fact about Moe Shrevnitz that none of his taxi pals knew. He was a trusted agent of The Shadow.

Harry Vincent relaxed as the cab sped toward the corner. He could depend on Moe to keep the lawyer in Sight.